


The Universe On Your Side

by pickapersonality



Category: All Time Low (Band), Bandom
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst with a sad ending, F/M, Heavy Angst, M/M, Recovery, a little scattered, depends on your point of view really, i think there's a happy ending somewhere here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 16:04:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14109027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickapersonality/pseuds/pickapersonality
Summary: He's is having one of those days where he can't stop thinking and thinking about things that had been, and could have been. It's a long-winded, complicated, and often painful thing, but he just gets stuck on the train of thought. He surveys the city through sad eyes, while his brain continues to torture him. It'll pass.But today, like so many other days, his mind is thinking of Jack Barakat. And that's a particularly painful 'what could have been'.-Alex sits on a balcony and ponders the path his life has taken thus far.





	The Universe On Your Side

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this one's been in the works for a while now. I'm pretty happy with it, so I hope you enjoy, and drop a comment because I'd love to know your opinion on this lovely mess. 
> 
> [set during the small-venue 2017 March tour of the U.K.]
> 
> Title taken from 'Ground Control' by All Time Low.

Alex Gaskarth is sitting on a balcony. 

It's the balcony leading from his hotel room, surveying the undisputedly grey city of London, in all of its glory. Blocks after blocks of concrete and glass, people's lives and work stacked on top of each other until it pierces the sky, ugly tearing ugly. Normally, the sky above London may as well have been a mirror; dreary ceilings of cloud, moving ever-so-slowly over the horizon. 

This evening, however, it is different. The light streaming through the thin wisps of cloud is golden, staining all those weary buildings and ribbons of tar, the sun casting its eye over the city and over Alex's skin, as he sits in his jacket and huffs out a puff of white steam, exhaling deeply and burying his hands in his pockets. The sun may be melting into puddles of light over everything he could see, but the temperature was as cold and frosty as ever. 

The country is familiar to him, like an old toy that he's found in the back of a closet that he used to love when he was a child. After all, this is where he was born, grew up for the first seven years of his life. It's a strange sort of home, so very different to America, and yet just as bittersweet. 

England, for him, is dangerous in the way that it seems to be an easy place for his mind to go off on tangents, whether he want it to or not. Maybe it's the cold, maybe it's the air or the familiar, short accents. He's not sure. 

He's is having one of those days where he can't stop thinking and thinking about things that had been, and could have been. It's a long-winded, complicated, and often painful thing, but he just gets stuck in the train of thought. He surveys the city through sad eyes, while his brain continues to torture him. It'll pass. 

But today, like so many other days, his mind is thinking of Jack Barakat. And that's a particularly painful 'what could have been'. 

<><><>

Alex is sat in math class. 

He is fifteen years old, and is sporting that uncut, punk-scene teenage haircut that he unknowingly will come to regret very much. It's his blink-182 everything phase, which, he admits, did last too long. Is he still in it? He's not sure. The classroom is very early-two-thousands, with a crab navy carpet and atrocious computer graphics up on the whiteboard, while an ever-increasingly precarious pile of papers builds up on the teacher's desk. 

Jack Barakat is sat in front of him, also rocking the I-have-a-better-music-taste-than-you look, and is having a heated debate with the teacher over the amount of homework they get set, scuffing his converse over the scruffy flooring with vigor. 

"We have lives, you know," Jack juts his chin out, and people who Alex has seen shove Jack into lockers nod along. High School: the place of no peace treaties or alliances, just hard, cold war. "My universe does not spin around math work." 

"Maybe it should," The teacher snaps, rolling his eyes. Alex really fucking hates the stupid purple tie he has on; it's a pretentious shade of plum, like the stuffed sofa his nan has back in Essex. "All these silly fantasies of being in a band - Jack, it's not going to happen." 

Alex really fucking hates this teacher. And his tie. 

Jack slumps down in his chair, and those locker-pushing people are now hissing to each other, not even attempting to cover up snide grins. Unbelievably, the math teacher continues, eyes boring into Jack like drills from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. Lisa, a pretty blonde girl that Alex has interesting chats with during history, stares down at her desk in discomfort. Alex feels her pain; they're surrounded by morons. And he doesn't just mean their fellow students. 

"Maybe if you paid a little more attention in my class, you wouldn't have to cling on to those stupidities." 

Then, Alex does a thing which he quite honestly never quite managed to regret, even with the amount of detentions he received for it. He stands up, looks the teacher in the eye, and says, without stuttering, 

"Fuck you and your shitty math class. Go shove a whiteboard marker up your ass." 

And he picks up his bag, slings it over his shoulder, and walks out of the classroom. As he turns to go, Jack catches his eye, and shoots him the tiniest, most subtle wink Alex has ever seen. 

That was a good day. 

<><><>

Alex is sat in Jack's bedroom, scribbling away in a notepad, singing softly under his breath, while Jack strums gently on his old acoustic guitar. It's peaceful, quiet, and Alex almost wants to just steal the moment, the soft, still calm of just him and Jack, writing music in its purest form. The afternoon sun streaks through the white curtains, illuminating the peeling posters and stray socks in stripes. 

"I think we should change that last part," Jack interrupts, and Alex stop singing, craning his neck up to look at the boy sat on the bed he is leaning against. 

"What do you mean?" 

Jack sets the guitar aside, and taps at a place on the notepad. Alex is a little preoccupied with the boy's position, arms over his shoulders as he points out the place, soft breaths hitting Alex's right ear and ghosting his neck. "Here. You've put 'there's something in this room'." 

"And?" 

"Sorry to mess up your masterpiece," Jack teases, and Alex nudges him playfully, almost pulling him off the bed, "But, like, it sounds awkward. D'you wanna change it?" 

"Maybe," Alex nods, considering the wording, considering whether wrapping a hand gently around Jack's reaching-over bicep would be acceptable. "What to, though?" 

At that exact moment, Jack's bedroom door swings open a little. Open windows and draughts running through Jack's house are imprinted onto the insides of Alex's memories, but he can't help it-

"Ghost!" Alex yelps, and tugs Jack's arm too hard. The guitarist tumbles over, miraculously not breaking Alex's neck, and ends up on top of him. However, instead of moving, Jack decides to sit back in Alex's lap, settling his head in the crook of his neck. 

Alex smiles gently, for not any reason at all, really. Jack giggles softly. 

"Wait," Jack suddenly becomes serious, and Alex suddenly actually starts listening to him. "A ghost? Could that work?" 

"Limited career choices," Alex snipes back. "No manual labour. Can't type. And I'm not sure about customer relations. Just goes through everything. And screams." 

"In the song, you idiot," Jack rolls his eyes so expressively Alex can see it, without even looking at his face. It's a gift of Jack's. "Like, 'there's a ghost in this room'. Kinda?" 

"Hey," Alex grins suddenly, and scribbles out the original lyric, squeezing Jack's suggestion in on top. "That's actually good." 

"Why thanks," Jack looks up at Alex, whisky eyes warm and happy. "I'm amazingly mediocre with moments of 'good'." 

Alex flicks him on the nose, drawing a sharp, pained noise. "Not true." 

Jack yawns and stretches his limbs, sliding down Alex's chest and laughing softly. "Thanks." 

"You're amazingly mediocre with microseconds of 'good'." 

Jack snorts and whacks Alex in the face with his notepad. 

<><><>

Alex is on stage. 

It's a place in Baltimore - a small venue, no more than two hundred capacity, but it's so loud and full of life that Alex can't hear himself think, in the best possible way. 

His hair is plastered to his head, due to the lack of proper A.C, and his guitar is heavy on his shoulder, the strap dragging him down. But he feels a way that he knows he won't be able to put into words, pin down in pretty phrases to pen with a catchy riff and sing to thousands. It's like a warm, pulsing glow, that's seeped in under his fingernails and through his mouth, infecting him with an adrenaline-fired, euphoric high that couldn't be imitated by any shitty drugs or drink. 

He feels on top of the fucking world. 

The crowd have screamed every lyric back at them, each words punched back at Alex like a wave. There are girls and guys alike in the front row, some that Alex recognises - Lisa's there, grinning and laughing and catching his eye - and some he's never seen before. 

Rian is pounding away on the drums, so hard he's behind a screen, Zack's bass is cranked up to the highest it can go, and Jack is there, always, dancing in circles and strumming like mad, and latching onto Alex every now and then, clammy hand finding shoulder, making him shiver in some strange way, and then moving back off as the guitar part swept up. 

And it's Jack who he looks at, as he says, 

"This next song is about someone you know you're gonna be with, cause you want them so much, nothing in the world can fucking stop you." Then, he turns back to the crowd, and, and just before the guitar crashes down, yells, "I got your picture-" 

The crowd empties their lungs, and Jack flashes him a grin that makes his stomach go all swoopey. None of it meant anything. It's all just jokes, jokes that are familiar between them by now. Expected. 

It doesn't mean anything. 

<><><>

Alex is in the back of the tour bus. 

It's a couple of years later; they're finishing off just one last round of shows in support of So Wrong It's Right, the list of cities that Alex kept on adding to and adding to until Rian took the pen off of him, and cleanly cut through half of the list. 

"We physically can't go to all these places," He'd rolled his eyes, laughing, passing the pen back. "Try to stick to cities with a population of over a thousand." 

"Dude," Jack had entered the room, blinking sleep from his eyes. "You just said 'physically'. You just said 'population'." He'd walked past the two of them, into the kitchenette of the bus. "Way too early." 

Now, Alex smiles to himself, yawning softly and stretching out over the couch, half paying attention to whatever shitty program he's got on the tv. It's late, too late to be up on tour, and he's floating in and out of sensibility. Zack and Rian are snoring, further down the corridor that runs the length of them bus, while Jack has, yet again, managed to hide himself away on a tourbus. Alex genuinely wants to know how he does it. 

It's a very nice tourbus, way nicer than they should be able to afford. But, somehow, one day, it was just there for them. Alex shudders to think of how much it had cost. He hadn't checked any bank accounts for months, until he was kindly informed of the fact that it had been paid for through joint finances. Yet another opportunity for Rian to judge Alex for his lack of Common Sense skills. 

"Fuck off Rian," Alex mumbles, leaning into the couch, resting his head back. "With your perfect teeth and perfect face and perfect arms." 

"Woah," Jack suddenly appears in the doorway, and Alex would probably be startled if not for his current maximum levels of comfort. "What happened?" 

"Rian's just too good," Alex mumbles, as Jack plonks himself down on the couch. Alex involuntarily leans into the warmth provided, arranging himself to fit into the curve of the side of Jack's body, chin tucked on shoulder. "I think we should kick him out." 

"Hmm?" Jack rests his head on Alex's, sinking into the couch. "Who d'you wanna have drum then?" 

"I don't fucking know," Alex groans. "'M tired. Don't pressure me into answering." 

"This is a space of consensual answering," Jack states. "'Lex, you're crushing my hip." 

So Alex does not do what he probably should. He does not, slowly and regrettably, draw himself away from the warm entity that is Jack. Instead, he throws his arms around Jack's shoulders, and swings a leg over the guitarist's lap, shoving his centre of gravity over onto Jack, and rests his head in the crook of Jack's neck. "There, equal weights." 

"Thanks," Jack snorts. "Could you move, asshat?" 

"Nah," Alex grins, moving his head up and back enough to put a good two inches between their faces. His arms are over Jack's shoulders, resting. "I'm comfy here." 

"Way too comfy," Jack murmurs, his warm breath ghosting over Alex's face. Jack smells of beer, but also warmth and comfort and familiarity. Despite himself, Alex shivers a little, and suddenly realises how strange this position would look to somebody who didn't know them. 

To be honest, if Rian or Zack woke up and came in right now, they would probably have no clue either. 

Jack's eyes are whisky, all liquid and soft, and Alex can't help losing himself in them, just a little. He also can't help noticing how those eyes drift, downwards, to gaze at his lips, as if their owner didn't even know he was doing it, and Alex shifts forward, by millimetres, whispering, "You sure?" 

"Obviously." And Jack leans in, and they're kissing, warm and tongue-y and teeth-ey, gentle lips and a slows buzz spreading down Alex's veins, as if Jack was drugging him, all down his neck and to his very fingertips. It's strange, but not, and it makes Alex's heart pound so hard he's sure Jack can feel it, as they're pressed together like opposite magnet poles. Jack nips on his bottom lip, ever so slightly, and he grins against his mouth, hands wandering to hips and hair and creeping underneath the ends of t-shirts. 

Regrettably, Jack pulls away, ever so slightly, and mutters, "Is this okay?" 

In reply, Alex grabs his face and surges forward. 

<><><>

Alex is at home, the very first apartment he's ever bought for himself, at the ripe old age of twenty, sat on the couch and sifting through endless piles of papers, notebooks, binders and envelopes, each covered in scribblings, in neat lines and hurried, half-drunk scribbles. It's a tedious job, made worse by the fact that it should have been completely unnecessary. 

"'Lex," Jack passes him a sheet, and he catches the words 'fucking rut', and slides it across the couch onto the pile of useful shit. "'Lex, c'mon. This isn't your fault." 

Alex sighs. "I was the one who fucking fell into the dresser. If I start having to sing my credit card bills-" He scrunches up said piece of paper in his fist- "I'm gonna throw myself off the tourbus." 

"We'll find everything," Jack soothes, catching the bill that Alex has lobbed at the floor and placing it in the bin he's dragged over. "Don't worry about it. Just be grateful you survived the thing falling on you." 

"It's a year's worth of lyrics," He rips a particularly irritating bank statement into two, almost perfectly equal, halves. "I'm worrying a little." 

"To be honest, there's not much for the year." At Alex's pointed look, Jack quickly backtracks. "I just mean, we've been on the road for a lot of it. It's not been a year for writing." 

"Still," Alex sighs, yet again; at this rate, his lungs are going to just give up. "I'm pissed at myself. Why can't I just stand up? I'm the clumsiest fuck ever." 

"Hey," Jack leans over, catching his wrists before he goes Godzilla on another stack of Important Adult Papers. "Maybe you shouldn't keep all of your paper in one set of drawers, and maybe you're a little clumsy. But we'll find everything. Stop being a dick to yourself." 

Alex finally drops the papers, pushing them all onto the floor, and looks down at Jack's hands. "Yeah. I know. I'm just-" 

Before he can continue, Jack pushes him back into the couch cushions, hovering over him, and connects their lips in a short, sweet kiss; the chaste kind that Alex only really gets when Jack is sober. The guitarist moves away a little to briefly mutter, "Shut the fuck up and kiss me," and Alex grabs his shoulders and pulls him down. 

The kiss deepens slowly, Jack claiming Alex's mouth and licking at his tongue, hands twisting through hair, whilst Alex's wander to the ends of Jack's top, scrabbling for bare skin as he lets out a soft noise that has Jack biting and sucking at the join between his neck and shoulder. Alex gasps, yanking the top up the guitarist's back. Jack moves back for a moment to pull the clothing over his head, sitting over Alex's hips, looking down at him with wide, blown eyes. 

"Fuck, I love you," Jack murmurs, and it makes Alex shiver and trace the tattoo splayed onto the right side of his boyfriend's chest. 

He has just enough time to choke out, "I love you too," before Jack moves back down to claim him. 

<><><>

Alex is back on the balcony, staring out at the portion of London he can see. The air is getting steadily colder around him, his breath starkly visible, and he shoves his hands further into his pockets, exhaling slowly. 

He wishes, so desperately wishes, that the fairytale could end there. Love and kisses and happily ever after's, all sweetness and comfort. 

But life isn't a fairytale, and cannot simply unfurl as a pretty set of song lyrics rolling from his mind to a piece of paper. It drags on the tiniest of bumps, catching and cutting deep, leaving scars for months, years, decades; sometimes, they never fade. 

Alex's have healed as best as they ever will. But on occasions like now, his mind enjoys tracing a blade over those tender, marred wounds. 

It only ever got worse, before it got halfway better. 

<><><>

Alex is in the kitchen, where it all started to crumble. 

He's sorting out the cupboards, cleaning up a little after a party they'd had the previous night. Rian and Zack were long gone, whisked away by various people, and the only people remaining at his apartment are him - the owner and resident, so no surprise there - and Jack. Who essentially lives here too. 

He's humming, a short, sweet melody he's had playing around in his head for a few days, that he really needs to write down and smooth over. Jack is in the other room, sprawled on the sofa and watching Home Alone, apparently in preparation for Christmas. The holiday is still a month away, but Alex has yet to find a way to draw him away from the movie. 

The cupboard under the sink has a tiny padlock on it, put there by Alex to protect the alcohol that actually cost more than five dollars a bottle from being drained by his partying friends, and had so stuck the lock on the cupboard door and hidden the key. Right now, he wants to just check on his stash, so he retrieves the tiny, cheap key from under the fruit bowl (which is sadly filled with packets of instant noodles, rather than anything of nutritional value) and eases open the lock. 

The bottom of his stomach drops. 

"Jack." The name sticks in his throat; strange really, it's the word he uses the most. "Jack! Get the fuck in here now." 

It takes him a good ten seconds, but Jack hauls himself from the couch, and arrives in the doorway, sleepily blinking at Alex. "Hmmm? Wha's happenin'?" 

"What the fuck, Jack?" 

Alex grabs the two nearest bottles, and holds them up. Jack's face drains of colour, going the pastiest shade Alex has ever seen the Lebanese boy turn. 

"These were full, a week ago. I haven't touched it." 

The bottles are empty, save for half an inch of clear liquid at the bottom of each. Alex feels something stir in his stomach, like a sick feeling of dread. 

"This is straight vodka." 

Jack just stands there, staring at the bottles, very, very still. 

"Jack, please tell me what the fuck is happening," Alex chokes, voice suddenly very painful and throat closing up, "Because I don't understand." 

And Jack just stands there. Fucking staring at the glass bottles, like he's willing them to disappear, shatter, do anything but condemn him with their emptiness. 

So Alex turns, far too methodically and carefully for how much his heart feels like it's being ripped out through his throat at the moment, and takes every bottle from the cupboard; the ones from years ago, given to him by family, and friends, months ago, and the two from only last week, intended to take on tour next year to keep them going on shots for the whole thing. Every bottle, save for one or two, is almost empty. And last time Alex checked, although the last time he checked properly was months ago, and he wants to smash the bottles over his head for his own stupidity, they were all full, or close to. 

How has he not seen? How has he missed it? Yes, he's been working every day this week, slaving away at the shitty grocery store down the road, but this? 

As Jack watches, Alex unscrews every bottle, and with shaking, sweating hands, pours the leftover contents of each one down the sink. 

Jack stands there, pale, staring. Looking anywhere but at Alex. 

<><><>

Alex is standing outside the studio, the night air cold around him. 

It's late, far too late to still be out. The streetlights are glaring down onto the pavement, illuminating circles of harsh, drowned yellow tones, leaving puddles of pitch black in between. The studio is locked up behind him, and he's still half immersed in fleeting ideas of guitar melodies and key changes, as he waits below the light. 

His phone beeps, vibrating in his palm. 

Rian [22:47]  
sorry, can't pick u up. got a family thing. jack said he's coming. 

At those nine words, Alex feels his heart drop down into his legs. Fuck. 

There's a reason Alex had asked Zack. Then Zack had plans. There's a reason Alex had asked Rian. And now Rian's let him down too. 

As much as it claws at his heart to admit so, he doesn't trust Jack at the moment. Nothing has improved, even with the lack of alcohol in his apartment. He can't control what Jack drinks; he's not attached to him. As entwined with Jack's life he is, or used to be, they are separated by different bodies and minds. 

Sighing, Alex's hands make fists in the pockets of his jacket, eyes lazily gazing up the road. There's nothing he can do now, but wait. 

It takes Jack ten minutes, but eventually, the familiar car is speeding towards where Alex stands, pulling up with a screech and a sudden burst of exhaust. The smoke makes Alex cough a little, his eyes stinging. 

Jack pulls down the driver's window. "Get in, fuckface. 'S too late to be out here-" A sudden, hacking splutter interrupts Jack's words, and as he clears his throat, Alex somehow decides that he must, at least for now, stop feeling anything much at all, in order to me the mature adult in this situation, and get both of them back safely. 

"Jack," His words are soft and clear, voice nearly cracking, but he takes a breath and carries on. "Jack. You're drunk. Let me drive." 

"You think I can't drive now?" Jack snaps, looking up at Alex, eyes seething with a liquid-fuelled rage. "I'm not fucking stupid. I can drive a car. Why don't you love me anymore?" 

"Get over, you idiot," Alex opens the driver's door, and Jack thankfully scrambles to the passenger's side without any more complaints. "Why don't _you_ love _me_ anymore?"

Jack coughs again, as Alex turns the key in the ignition and pulls away from the sidewalk. "I do love you. Just don't love me. But that's fine." 

"What the fuck do you mean?" Alex is far too tired, far too sad, far too everything, to be hearing this right now, from his drunken boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. He doesn't know. He's far too scared of just crumbling away at the slightest tap. "Why don't you love you?" 

The amber glow of the streetlights they pass casts shifting shadows onto Jack's face as he speaks. "I'm useless. You don't need me. Nobody needs me. You'd all be fine without me, right?" 

Jack's words are so dejected, so broken, that Alex can't even find any words to try to argue. They just catch in his throat, threatening to spill over into tears if he tries. He'll just choke. 

They reach Alex's apartment in silence, and Jack is sleepy enough to be easily half-carried up the few flights of stairs, arms around Alex's shoulder and face buried into the crook of his neck. The building is near silent, the sound of their breathing and footsteps filling the corridor. 

As soon as Alex locks his door, he pulls Jack through to the bedroom, gently taking his jacket from his shoulders, pulling off shoes, and laying him down on top of the sheets. Moonlight slants through the windows, casting an ethereal glow over the two inhabitants of the room, staining everything its signature shade of silver. 

"'Lex," Jack mumbles, words so quiet Alex almost misses them. "I love you. I'm sorry." 

Alex swallows. "I know." 

Sighing deeply, Jack closes his eyes, and soon, is away in a soft slumber. 

Finally, Alex lets out a single, trailing tear, seeping from his eye down his face, dripping off his chin onto the face of the sleeping boy below. It's not a feeling he can put into words, really, this indescribable hurricane of piercing emotions swirling; anger, at Jack, sadness, with Jack, pity, for Jack, all mixed with this sweeping, unmovable love, love that he can't get rid of. It's taken hold of him. 

He bends down, and presses a soft, sweet kiss to Jack's lips. 

Alex doesn't know how this love could ever work. 

<><><>

Alex is spiralling. 

By the time the album is out, Alex and Jack are no longer AlexAndJack. Two separate, seemingly unbreakable entities have split, and the rift is an open wound that has to be dressed and coated in layers of plastic deception to hold together the future of the band. 

Zack and Rian know, to an extent. They know about the kisses, the hand-holding, the time together. They know Jack has been drinking too much. 

That is all they know. To Alex, it's barely anything. To anybody else, it's everything. 

There are songs about Jack, about breaking hearts and playing parts. There are songs about poison, liquid and love. And there are songs about being broken, in pieces, scattered all over the album. Nothing Personal is something Jack looks at Alex over sometimes, with sad, questioning eyes and a down turned mouth, before he downs all the alcohol he can find for the evening and forgets it all. 

The shows are played. Alex forgets for a while, as the kids scream and laugh and cry, and he sings the songs of his heartache that they'll never know the true meaning behind. The aftershock hits, where everything hurts and nothing is okay. And then, he numbs everything all over again, with whatever he can find. Sex, drink or sleep. It all works the same way. 

The drink burns a little as it goes down, though. 

<><><>

Alex is winded. 

The next album is from rock bottom. 

The band is together, still; Alex thinks it's because of Rian, or Zack, or Matt. Jack is tagging along for the hell ride, all dirty jokes and plastic smiles and carefully processed image of the carefree, drunken guitarist. There's falseness in everything he does, from the meetings to band practise to recording, a fake smile beneath every half-sincere thing that comes from his mouth. 

It seems to be cursed from every angle: on top of the whirlwind he's caught himself in, the record label messes them around endlessly. Alex can't help thinking that maybe, in every single aspect of his life, he has poured too much of himself into everything that was given to him, and fallen when it crumbled beneath him. 

He hates every part of himself, of the music he's writing. He tears pages from notebooks, shredding the paper, until he finally spins the words in a way he feels at least half-contented with. It will do. 

Truly, it's a Dirty Work. 

Even the fans hate it. 

<><><>

Alex is at his mom's friend's brother's son's wedding. 

It's a tedious, boring affair, as weddings always have been and always will be. There's silver glitter on everything, balloons looming in each corner of the room. It feels a little like a minefield, as he stands against the wall, clutching a glass of rosé, observing all the people he feels he should know. 

It's the first event where his 'plus-one' invite is not being used, and the thought should make his throat go tight, but by now he's just tired of all of it. It weighs down on his head, like a physical presence, pressing and pressing on that painful place where the bad memories live. The church ceremony was painful enough, all vows and loving words and happy tears. Now, he's got to get through at least a couple of hours of watching people dance together. There will most certainly be bent heartstrings involved, but not in a tear-inducing manner. Not anymore. 

The venue is designed in a typical way, all soft cream curtains sweeping side to reveal the sweeping countryside landscape outside, rolling greenery behind the polished glass. People's shoes squeak on the stripped wooden floor, tables all around the sides of the dance floor now covered in glasses that people candidly put down and forget about. 

There's bottles of alcohol everywhere, champagne and white wine and spritzers. It hurts a little too much, and Alex tighten his grip around his lemonade. 

"Hey, Alex. Haven't seen you for a while." 

It takes him a moment to place the voice, but when he turns round to see the familiar, honey-blonde woman, something like a mixture of relief and nostalgia washes over him. His smile is easy, effortless. "Lisa! How's it going?" 

She settles next to him, watching the dancing couples go past and holding a glass of rosé in her left hand. "I should be asking you. You're some sort of rockstar now, right?" 

He laughs, and it's genuine, making his chest lighten. "That's pushing it a little." 

"Come on, I've been to some of your shows. You're pretty cool." 

"Pretty cool? From you, I'll take that as a compliment." 

"Why?" She asks. "Because I was among the few lucky ones to hear some of your early demos? I tell you, that was the biggest honour ever bestowed upon me." 

"Oh God," He shakes his head, making a pained face. "They made me want to cut my ears off. I swear, they've all been destroyed. Every last one." 

"Awww, shame," She winks, sipping at her sparkling, light-pink drink. "I kinda liked them. They sounded… authentic." 

"You sound like an angsty journalist who writes for some indie magazine that only print on bamboo paper and advertises boot polish made from carrot wax," He retorts. "Nothing is authentic anymore, unless you record it on a literal vegetable." 

Lisa shrugs, and Ales notices the pretty beading detailing the sleeves of her mint-coloured dress. She'd always been beautiful, he thought, from their prom date to… well, now. "I don't care. I still think you're a rockstar." 

"I don't think I want to be, to be honest." Alex steps sideways to avoid a particularly enthusiastic couple, spinning around with glasses in their hands. "Nobody would, after having experienced tour hangovers. Imagine being hit over the head with a baseball bat, but the bat's made out of steel." 

"Hey, you're the one who turned up to prom in that tourbus." She raises her eyebrows accusingly. "You can't back out now, there are expectations following that sort of thing."

He snorts, and she giggles, and for whatever reason, they start cackling together like mad, incoming amusement crashing together into a river of laughter, tears starting to stream down Lisa's face and smearing her mascara like streaks of ink on notebook paper. 

Alex always thinks that people are like songs, all made up of lyrics that can mean a thousand different things from person to person. They can fly and crash and crumble and end, but there's always something beautiful about them. Right now, as she laughs so hard she bends over, blonde hair tumbling down her back in curls over the light green of her dress, Lisa looks an awful lot like a love song. 

<><><>

Alex is not surprised when it happens a few months after he has started seeing Lisa in a way that's not quite platonic and not quite romantic. Yet. 

They're finishing up the Dirty Work tour; the songs taste rancid in Alex's mouth, words all acidic and poison and speaking of a time that he can't even bear to think about most of the time. The words are all either syrup-sweet and false, or far too glaringly honest for anybody at all to guess that they're real. Zack and Rian are smart, they know him well enough to know not to pry into his romantic life, but Alex will never be grateful enough for how much they've managed to stand beside both him and Jack. 

Jack. Jack plays guitar, bleaches his hair in a way that still makes Alex want to run his fingers through it, drinks far too much and watches movies. Jack is still Jack, and it's both painful and comforting. Alex is not a heartless, idiotic, brainless pig; he has quietly organised help for Jack, contacting people and organisations, giving the details of times and places to his other bandmates to pass on, watching from the sidelines to see Jack try to walk away from the sources of his self-destruction. It could be going far worse. 

They seem to be attempting to heal over via slow reintroduction to each other's lives, which is working. So far. 

The Thing that happens takes place right at the very end of their set, back in Baltimore, after they've reappeared onstage to the deafening shouts of 'Encore', and after the two previous songs they'd squashed into the setlist. Now, everyone knows what's coming, and the energy in the room is buzzing far more than it was during the newer songs they performed earlier. Alex can't find it in his heart to blame the crowd for that. 

"Baltimore, you've been incredible!" He yells, both arms up and around, trying to embrace the warmth he can almost feel emanating from the audience. "You always are. We've got one more song for you tonight, do ya wanna hear it?" 

The screams are deafening, but they always are. That is not The Thing. 

The words that come from his mouth feel more natural than breathing, in this moment. "This next song is about someone you know you're gonna be with, cause you want them so much, nothing in the world can fucking stop you." 

There's Lisa. She's in the front row, her backstage pass bouncing around her neck, hair golden and radiant and framing her face like a halo. Her face widens to a smile, so full of warmth and genuine affection that Alex almost chokes up on the next words he has to say, sing, shout. For the kids, for Lisa, for himself. 

"I got-" 

Your face in my mind, your arms around me, your laughter and smiles and tears and soft voice that you only use when the light is gentle and golden. 

-your picture, I'm coming with you." 

He's not looking to his right as he sings, words pouring from him in perfect tune. He's not looking at him. He's looking at her. 

"There's a story at the bottom of this bottle, and I'm the pen." 

<><><>

Alex finally, finally feels proud. 

The album is everything he ever wanted it to be, the epitome of what he always wanted to band to be capable of from day one. The fans are devouring it whole, savouring each song they are handed; it feels so good, so much better than it did the last time. He normally doesn't give two shits about critics, not anymore, but to see headlines like, "Don't Panic: All Time Low Just Released Their Best Album Yet' is always soothing. 

Lisa is a love song in the album. Backseat Serenade is penned entirely after her, after the months they have now spent together as LisaAndAlex. It's about summer and sweetness and sugar, with Alex finally feeling able to use alcohol as a happy metaphor, which feels ridiculously good. Outlines is a fleeting, high-on-life realisation that he's only got one chance to be happy, and Alex can rest happy knowing that he wrote that song with Patrick-fucking-Stump. His head is still spinning. 

Jack gives him more long looks over this album than he did over Nothing Personal. He's everywhere: within the pre-chorus of Canals; the owner of Paint You Wings's monster; bitterly pinned down from Alex's worst, angriest moments he needed to get down on paper in Me Without You; disguised as the queen of Oh, Calamity. 

It feels more cleansing than anything else. Relieving, like a method of trapping the torments of the last few years and wording them so concisely that they're a comfort. 

It wasn't until after laying down the intro vocals and bassline for Irony Of Choking On A Lifesaver that Jack had followed Alex into the studio to fetch his bag, Rian completely absent and Zack having left already, to stand in the doorframe and asked Alex, looking him dead in the eye, 

"Is this song about me?" 

Had he picked basically any other song, Alex may have simply nodded. But, with the image of Jack laughing at one of Lisa's jokes playing through his mind, he had to shake his head. Jack has been a million and one things, but bitter towards Lisa is not among them; after all, they had also been friends back in school. 

"No," Alex says, pondering each word carefully before saying it. It's so important that he gets this right. "But some of them are." 

"Do you regret me?" Jack seems intent on a straight answer, and Alex can't blame him. 

"I regret how I lost you," Alex's words are simple, carrying all the weight he has shouldered for years like it's nothing. "But not having you. Never." 

"You didn't lose me, though," Jack replies. "We both lost a part of me that wanted to destroy his liver and many windows. I don't miss that bit." 

"Neither do I." They're just standing, talking, with no convoluted metaphors or tiptoeing around phrasings. It feels like Alex is breathing cool air after years of being engulfed in a blanket. "Just the things that we could do before." 

"Alex, I love you," Jack states. Alex feels his chest contract in the most painful way he's experienced for a while, and Jack quickly backtracks. 

"I'll always love you, dude. And I'll always regret what I did to us. But I know you love Lisa, and she's so much better for you than I was. Maybe you're happier with her now, and I'm happy for you both," He continues. "Maybe it was all for the best." 

Alex can only stare in surprise. "When was this Jack when we needed him all the last few years?" 

Jack's mouth twists upwards into a wry smile. "He's been a work in progress." 

"He's worth the wait." 

Alex feels more at peace than he has for months. 

<><><>

Alex is sat at a table, opposite to Lisa, in a warm, buzzing restaurant that she recommended for their evening, all warm furnishings and pleasant conversation. The plates in front of them are empty, cutlery resting against their edges. 

"I like it here," She smiles, looking around around in contentment. "It's so nice. The people are nice. The food is nice." 

"The plates are nice," Alex continues, tone teasing yet gentle. "The curtains are nice." 

"You scoff, but these curtains are beautiful," Lisa rolls her eyes at him in an endearingly (by now) familiar way, casting an appreciative glance towards the sweeping, soft red fabric swathes pinned back from the windows. 

"Not as beautiful as you," He winks, and she sighs. He can detect disappointment in the sound. 

"You're not smooth," She holds up one hand, palm towards his face. "At all." 

But she does look beautiful, she always does, and in the soft cream blouse she's paired with skinny blue jeans, she's in her element; the clothes are very much like her, he thinks, with their gentle effect and comfortable effortlessness. "How did I every get you to agree to be with me?" It's a sincere question. She's so stunning, both in terms of personality and looks- why did she settle for him? 

"I seem to recall a wedding," She raises her eyebrows teasingly, teeth flashing white in the candlelight. "And copious amounts of rosé. And your natural charm may have been a factor too, I suppose." 

"You're too nice," He chuckles, and yet the palms of his hands are clammy. He knows exactly what he needed to tell her tonight, but has no clue how to deliver the message. It's all getting stuck in his throat, a jumble of words he brings himself to say, but they come out silent every time he tries. 

Then, he thinks of Jack, who spoke so plainly and honestly in the studio, and how much easier that made everything. So he takes a breath, looks at Lisa gently yet seriously, and talks. 

"I should tell you something, Li. Please don't freak out," At the sudden rush of worry clouding her face, he quickly holds up both hands in a surrendering motion. "It's nothing bad, I don't think. Don't worry." 

"Okay," She nods cautiously. "You can tell me anything, you know that." 

"It's about me and somebody else I was seeing before that wedding," He starts, trying to file and organise the jumble of words floating through his brain at a pace far too leisurely for how fast his mouth is working. "Before you and I got together." 

"Yes…" She looks confused now. "I was with some people before I met you too, you know. You don't need to… apologise for that." 

"No, I know," He bites his lip. "It's just, you know this person." 

"Oh," She smiles gently, rolling her eyes. "Alex, I know you were with Jack for a bit. A few years ago. Well, like, six." 

"Wait," The thoughts are spilt all over the table, notes flying everywhere. He tries to reel them back in. "You knew? Already? How?" 

"Give me some credit," She scoffs, but it's not malicious, just amused and slightly disbelieving. "Zack and Rian are my friends too." 

"They're so great," He sighs. "I don't deserve them. And you," He just shakes his head at Lisa, and wonders yet again how he ever managed to convince her to be with him. "I don't deserve you." 

"Alex," She leans over the table, and gives him a soft, chaste peck on his lips. "You deserve the world." 

<><><>

Alex, despite what his music says, has no desire whatsoever to run away from any part of his life. 

Future Hearts, ultimately, is an album full of reasons to leave stagnant places behind, whether that be for, with or to escape from another person. There's odes to long night drives with Lisa, the kids who dance to their music in the dark gaps between strobe lights in the venues, and of course, Jack is there. Don't You Go is a dip inside the mind of 2007 Alex Gaskarth, all mixed up and being overcome by swirling emotions. Tidal Waves is the process of drowning in them. 

Maybe it won't be their most recognised, nor iconic, album, but it's a full-bodied, fully alive breath of fresh air. 

<><><>

 

Alex is on the Back To The Future Hearts tour bus, all sleek black surfaces and dark leather, sat in the back lounge with his legs crossed on the couch and a notebook laid down before him, phone beside it, recording program open. It's the early stages of the demo, and he knows that Future Hearts is still young to the ears of the fans, but he can't help it; creating is like an itch that you have to constantly scratch in order to ever sit back and look over the mess you've made. 

The rest of the band are out, save for Rian, who's gone to check out some little Italian restaurant in the neighbourhood with Matt. Alex can hear the universe laughing itself sick over rhyming names, but he's not amused. Jack never really stopped partying, drinking, but he tried to restrict himself. Still, he's out there, surrounded by alcohol. 

Zack is with him, Alex thinks. Zack is sensible. Zack is taking care of him. 

"We just had one of all the drinks they gave us," Zack's voice rings through the quiet of the lounge as the door bursts open, revealing the stumbling, slurring bassist in all his tall, muscular glory, followed by a scattered Jack, who's holding onto the doorframe with a little too much desperation. "There were green drinks, Alex." 

Alex sighs, shutting the notebook and sliding his phone into his pocket. He can feel the familiar tiredness begin to set in- dealing with drunken people both irritates and terrifies him. For obvious reasons. "Wow. Green. What kind of green?" 

"I don't know, man," Zack shrugs, face as confused as Alex has ever seen it. "Jus' green. Like, peas. Or trees." 

"Or Shrek," Jack butts in helpfully, collapsing into the couch. Alex is grateful he thought to move his things. "Shrek is very green." 

"The greenest," Zack nods solemnly. Alex kind of wants to punch him, but in a very gentle way. 

Zack is only human, Zack is allowed to get drunk. Besides, Jack is nearly three years clean from excessive drinking. Not completely sober, because it's Jack and Alex doesn't ever think he will be, but it's good enough, and above all, it's healthy. Healthy for Jack's mind and body, for the band, for their tentatively-building friendship. 

"Lex," Jack curls up to his side, fitting is body into the shape of Alex's shoulders and waist and hips, head on the crook of his neck. For a moment, Alex feels a sharp twinge of memory, a flashback to a scene so painfully similar to this one, where there was less alcohol and no Zack laughing at the sound of his own voice. He suddenly has the overwhelming urge to cry, and it's pathetic. "Lex, you're warm. Can I sleep on you?" 

"I wanna sleep," Zack says dumbly, and with a sort of half-wave half-nod, he leaves the back lounge in a stumbling, strange manner, jacket falling from his shoulders in an unaffected manner and lying in the doorway in his wake. Alex sighs deeply and stares at it, trying to blink the wetness from his eyelashes before Jack noticed. Not that he will, in this state. 

"Leeeeex," Jack whines, grasping at the front of Alex's shirt, rubbing his cheek on Alex's shoulder in an insufferably endearing manner. "Lex." 

"Yeah?" Alex nudges the laptop with his toe and attempts to slide it away without Jack noticing; he doesn't want to share the demo yet, hastily recorded on a tourbus with his acoustic guitar that needs a little tuning, with unpolished lyrics that need tweaking. Unfortunately, the laptop hits the leg of the coffee table, making a clanging sound and attracting Jack's full attention. 

Fuck. Why do they have a coffee table? Nobody ever uses a coffee table on a tourbus. 

"Were you doing music?" If Jack were a dog, his ears would be pricked, as he looks at Alex with wide, unfocused eyes. "Can I hear?" 

Alex sighs deeply, but knows he can't refuse. Jack is part of this band too. With a twinge of dissatisfaction at the knowledge that he won't be able to present this song at its best, he leans over and scoops the laptop from the floor. 

Jack is utterly focused on the screen as Alex opens up the file, and shuffles even closer as he hits play. 

The muted, tinny sound of guitar strumming is all Alex can focus on as Jack tucks his chin into his collarbone, fluffy hair against his neck. Jack is raptly immersed in the music, and Alex can't help but feel a touch of pride. This is his song, that he's spent hours quietly working away at. 

"That's the best song you've ever written," is the first thing that comes from Jack's mouth as soon as it finishes. "Completely." 

Alex laughs softly, closing the laptop and (this time successfully) sliding it away across the floor. He feels like an inflated helium ballon, all warm and floating. "Thanks." 

"What were you gonna call it?" Jack turns his head, meets Alex's eyes in earnest. Even with the lack of distance, Alex can see how huge his pupils are. Jack is shitfaced. 

"Good Times," Alex, out of instinct, and with no ill or sexual purpose, reaches up and wraps his arms around Jack, sliding them over his shoulders and feeling the warm, solid being he loves so dearly. "You like it?" 

"I love it." 

Alex is a helium ballon, and in that moment, Jack pops him. 

With a slight tilt of his head, Jack reaches up and kisses him. It's barely anything, just lips on lips, but it drives the knife right into Alex's chest, as Jack touches his face ever-so tentatively, twisting and making him gasp against Jack's mouth. 

He feels so cold, like the blood in his veins has crackled to ice, making him shiver uncontrollably. Time seems to freeze in the moment, and it's just them on the couch, with Jack's body curled around his and the closeness too achingly bittersweet for him to bear. 

There's a rush of memories, thoughts of kisses underneath sunny windows and linked hands behind backs when Alex got overwhelmed by a pressing crowd of fans. It all feels very raw, like there's nothing between his heart and Jack's hands, like Jack could just reach out and stop it beating. 

It takes every ounce of strength he owns, but he pushes Jack away. 

Jack goes, but with one irresistible lean, he kisses Alex once more, hard and pressing, as if he's trying to imprint what Alex tastes like into his mind. Then, he's away, head back on Alex's shoulder, adjusting so that his arms are resting lightly on the leather couch and his own thighs. 

"Jack." Alex wished that he didn't sound so broken. "No. Not-no-I-" 

"I know," Jack says simply, and it seems like a brief moment of clarity amidst the fog of his drunken haze. "I know. I just wanted a proper goodbye." 

"I'm still here," Alex whispers. 

"You are," Jack acknowledges. "But we aren't. Us together, Jack and Alex, young and in love." 

"Oh," Alex breathes, then- "Sleep, Jack." 

"I am," Jack replies, voice soft and slurring into slumber. "Keep watch for the lions for me?" 

"Always." 

It takes Jack a few minutes to fall asleep, and in those few minutes, Alex decides that this isn't enough to tell Lisa. He knows Lisa trusts him. But, in a strange way, this wasn't a kiss in the traditional sense. This was two lovers, breaking away from each other at last. As Jack had said- goodbye. He knows Lisa would rather not know, would rather let Alex keep it to himself. 

The bus is quiet, Jack's gentle snores the only sound. Finally, for the last time, Alex lets the tears rise to his eyelashes, and cries for himself and Jack. 

"Goodbye, Jack," He whispers, and hugs Jack again, in a way that's sweetly platonic and wholly refreshing. He cries, but it doesn't hurt very much, the wetness sliding down over his cheeks a warm presence on the frozen skin. 

It's the end of a tragedy, and the rising of a new sun. 

<><><>

Alex is stood in a laundromat, lighting dim and tinged blue-green. He's wearing a new shirt, just tugged over his arms by his parents, who flew all the way to LA just to do this. Alex loves them a lot. 

Now, they're between takes, and he's shivering - the laundromat is closed, and the central heating is switched off. In the thin t-shirt he's wearing, it's only a little warmer than it is outside, in the February chill. Pat, the director, has told him that he won't be there for too long, but he's starting to doubt his word. It's been half an hour. 

"So, the idea is that you three walk into the shot," Pat explains to Jack, Zack and Rian as they watch the previous few scenes in curiosity from behind the camera. "And we'll get some of you picking up your instruments, blah blah, and then one of you takes the jacket and puts in on Alex." 

"Sweet," Rian nods, grinning. Alex still hates his perfect teeth; some things never change. "Can I actually play?" 

"It's a detached building," Pat nods. "Knock yourselves out." 

"Can we hurry up?" Alex whines, not even caring about how much he sounds like a grumpy toddler. "I'm cold." 

"Alright, princess," Pat laughs, but Alex knows he doesn't mean it in a patronising way. They've worked with Pat before. "Come on, let's shoot this thing. Who's putting the jacket on him?" 

They all exchange glances, and then Zack speaks up. 

"I think Jack would work best." He shrugs. "The fans know that they have a close friendship. I mean, we all do, but they always do random shit together." 

"I second that," Rian holds up a drumstick as if voting. Alex can't even bring himself to care that Rian just produced a drumstick from midair. He's too cold. 

"Sorted," Pat clap his hands loudly. "Okay, let's do this." 

Alex pouts at Pat, who simply laughs at his pain, before resuming the blank stare at the camera and mouths along to the music. He always find lip-syncing to his own music extremely strange; he wrote these songs to be… sung, strangely enough. 

Then, the three of them approach from behind the camera, and Jack has the jacket, puts it around Alex's shoulders as he lifts his arms to slot them through. The shot has cut away to Rian sitting on his stool by now, but Jack still stands there, straightens out the collar and sighs, meeting Alex's eyes with a small smile. 

The metaphor they are enacting is almost painful, but not quite. Alex is past the pain, simply left with a residing ache. 

"Thank you," He whispers, and he's not just talking about the jacket. 

"No," Jack shakes his head softly. "Thank you." 

"Alright boys, time to wrap up the love fest!" Pat's voice cuts through the moment like a knife, and Jack snorts. Alex rolls his eyes. "Jack, pick up your goddamn guitar and play something." 

"I'll probably fuck it up," Jack scoffs. 

"Who cares," Pat shrugs. "Nobody'll know." 

"Unless they play guitar," Alex chimes in. 

"Shut up, Alex," Zack, Rian and Pat all say at the same time, and Alex pulls the most childish face he can muster towards them. Jack laughs, an airy, contented sound, and Alex laughs too. 

<><><>

Alex is sitting on a balcony in London, so wrapped up in the train of his own thoughts that he doesn't hear the glass doors sliding open behind him, or the footsteps leading up to the chair besides his. When the other person finally hit his peripheral vision, he startles, eliciting a laugh. 

"Boo," Jack trails a finger lightly over the balcony fence, other hands brushing through the red streak in his hair as the dancing breeze catches it. "Can I sit?" 

"Sure," Alex releases a deep breath, watching it mist. The golden light cast over the city is fading now, leaving the glow of the thousands of streetlights and windows below to light up the roads. It really is cold. 

"This tour has gone by so fast," Jack leans back in the chair. Alex can feel his eyes on him. "Last date tomorrow." 

"I love doing this," Alex smiles gently, forgetting everything that's been clogging his mind for the past half hour and thinking of the light, colour, noise of tour. "The small venues, here." 

"You love the UK," Jack laughs. 

"It's almost as if I was born here," Alex rolls his eyes, and Jack reaches over to punch his shoulder. 

"I'm very aware of where you were born, you never used to shut up about losing your green card," Is Jack's retort. It makes Alex chuckle, as a sudden sweep of wind ruffles the brown strands of hair dipping into his eyes. 

"Don't need to worry about that anymore." He absentmindedly twists the golden band on his ring finger, the metal warmed by the constant presence of his skin. Jack's eyes dip to the movement. 

"How is Lisa?" Jack asks with genuine curiosity in his voice. "I haven't really spoken to her for a while." 

"You saw her before tour," Alex points out. 

Jack shakes his head. "Yeah, but I haven't had a conversation with her for ages." 

Alex recalls the Christmas party they'd had, just a few friends and their partners, and how Jack and Lisa had tried to outdo each other with the amount of sprouts they could possibly eat. To everybody's utter shock besides Alex, Lisa had completely destroyed Jack, and Alex can still picture the guitarist's look of the kind of respect you only reserve for sprout-eaters that he'd shaken Lisa's hand with. 

"Don't talk about Christmas," Jack suddenly butts into his thoughts, as if reading them. "Thinking about it still makes me wanna puke." 

"That was all your own fault," Alex replies. "But, yeah, she's doing great. Bit stressed over this woman's wedding theme, but other than that, she's good." 

"What's the theme?" 

"Star Wars," Alex informs him grimly. "Complete with Chewbacca cake and working lightsaber drink stirrers." 

Jack is momentarily overcome with what seems to be disgust and amusement, and Alex allows him a moment to collapse into horrified laughter. Compared to the quiet air earlier, punctured only by the traffic beneath them, Jack's giggles are a welcome soundtrack to the scene. 

"Your wedding was fucking great, though," Jack manages to pull himself together. "Very pretty and shit." 

"It's almost as if my wife plans events," Alex snipes, drawing a rolling of eyes from the guitarist. "Yeah, it was. I don't think I ever thanked you for being there, actually." 

"You don't need to, man," Jack waves off the gratitude with a flick of his wrist. "I was glad to be there. I'm your best friend." 

"You are," Alex sighs, and doesn't think about his next words at all before they fall from his mouth. "I love you, Jack." 

Jack doesn't miss a beat. "I love you too, Lex." 

"You said," Alex starts carefully, this time. "That you didn't regret us." 

Jack looks nonplussed. "I don't. Just how we finished." 

Alex nods, to himself and to Jack. "Good. I mean, thank you. Me too." 

Jack reaches over and squeezes his hand, the wedding band a familiar presence between their fingers, but not an unwelcome one. "And I'm so fucking glad that you didn't give up on me as your friend." 

"Never," Alex promises, looking from the city below to Jack's liquid eyes. "You're stuck with me forever. The universe is on our side." 

"You should put that in a song," Jack punctuates the words with a grin. Alex returns it with his own. 

"I will." 

Alex Gaskarth, sitting on the balcony, with his best friend beside him and the love of his life tied to him by the gleaming ring on his finger, with his band a room away from them both and an album full of happiness and hope spilling from his mind onto pages and into music, is happy.

>   
>  fin.  
> 


End file.
